The Renegade Chronicles
by AntoniusArisen
Summary: In the vast, untamed land of Skyrim, four fugitives become unlikely allies.
1. Chapter 1

Gaius Ordo hated Skyrim.

He hated the biting, unforgiving winds that whistled down the craggy canyons. He hated the relentless snow that crept down boots and inside leather armor. The Nords were a stupid, petulant people, and their Stormcloaks lacked the discipline to pose much of a threat to his legate. Worst of all, there was a lack of good, clean skooma. During his legion's stay in Morrowind, Skooma flowed as freely as alto wine. However, product was poor and spread out in Skyrim; and with so few Kahjits willing to wander the dangerous and unpatrolled highways, when there was skooma is was diluted and purchased in the shadows from some paranoid Orcish fiend.

Worst of all was the officers.

In a civilized province, imperial officers rarely interfered with the enlisted ranks, operating as more of an uncle than a harsh disciplinarian. This Tulius fellow, however, was a different breed of General. He hand-selected overzealous, headstrong academy graduates from noble families, unwilling to get their hands dirty but more than happy to order their men to.

In Morrowind, Ordo's commander was a decent enough fellow. A bit of a drunkard, but who wasn't in an occupational army? The man was decent with a blade, gave a fair share of loot to his men, and turned his head the other way when the moment called for it. In Skyrim, everything changed. The old commander was sent to some pisshole in High Rock, and the new officers came in only months before the legion left for the front.

Quintius Alexius was the new legate commander; a petulant and rosy-cheeked aristocrat who grew up in the well-protected countryside of Cyrodil after the sack of the Imperial City. His father was a Grand Councilor to Titus Mede II. The boy carried himself with the air of a Grand General, hosting elaborate inspections each morning and surveying the lines with a leather-bound stick. General Tulius might as well be a God to the young officer, who read the General Orders of the Imperial Legion daily before the assembled legate after inspection.

Even worse, Captain Alexius hated Gaius Ordo.

Ordo was an easy target. He was a massive man, so much that most thought him to be a Nord at first glance. He was a head-and-a-half taller than most Imperials, and two or three heads taller than the average Bosmer. In Morrowind, he killed two Dunmer with his bare hands in a drunken brawl. His old commander turned the other way, but Quintus Alexius heard the rumors and continually reminded Ordo that he would have no such uncivilized debauchery in his legate.

Alexius was a small man, even by Imperial standards, and therefore quite enjoyed holding power over a giant like Gaius Ordo. He would continually make an example of Ordo before the formation, criticizing his shave or uniform and sentencing him with latrine duty, or extra watch.

Though not the brightest of Imperials (no one who stands seven feet tall has much need of cleverness,) Gaius was no fool. Defying an imperial officer was a capital offense, and the giant had no desire to be hanged in a land so forsaken as Skyrim.

Not only that, but he enjoying soldiering. He was a natural warrior, and although the unit-oriented tactics of the Imperial Legion were somewhat restraining, Gaius Ordo was a fine legionnaire. In his months on the front, he gained some notoriety among the Stormcloaks as "Big Leo," 'Leo' being a derogatory term for an Imperial soldier. At a skirmish near Bleak Falls, Ordo broke legionary formation and defeated nearly ten Stormcloaks, who scattered in terror. He killed six and mortally wounded four, but Captain Alexius still reprimanded Ordo for breaking formation and ordered him to double-watch.

Ordo didn't mind the watch, either. When everyone else was asleep, he could trade his war trophies with the camp followers for skooma. Sweet, wonderful skooma—even the diluted Skyrim mixture—was Ordo's only real friend in the Imperial Legion. He imagined that he would continue fighting the Stormcloaks, selling their armor an weapons for skooma, and repeating each week, forever.

It couldn't last forever.

On a patrol to Riverwood, Ordo convinced the Prefect to adjust the route and spend a couple hours in the village's tavern. Although reluctant, the newly-promoted Prefect was terrified of Ordo and the other three soldiers, who grinned at him malevolently, as if to suggest that a disagreement could mean his cold body floating over the falls.

In the tavern, the night began quite well. Although the tavern's patroness was a surly and close-lipped woman, the wine and mead flowed freely. Ordo traded a stormcloak helm for thirty gold pieces, and drowned his hatred of Quintus Alexius with an incredible amount of alcohol.

Ordo barely noticed Captain Alexius enter the tavern, as well as the dozen or so soldiers that came with him, dressed in full armor with weapons drawn.

The Prefect pleaded with the Captain, who struck the young soldier on the face with his steel gauntlets and ordered him under arrest. The tavern cleared out, leaving Ordo and his two drunken compatriots before the Captain and his men.

Worse still, the soldiers pulled Ordo's skooma pipe from his pocket, and what remained of his stash in his pockets.

"Carrying contraband is a hanging offense, Ordo." The Captain said with a wry smirk, dropping the expensive glass pipe on the ground and smashing it with his boot. "Arrest these treacherous fools. The lot of them will go before the General."

The two men beside Ordo swallowed, and one began to whimper. To go before a General for an offense, especially one like Tulius, meant only one thing. Hanging by the neck.

Without really thinking, Ordo grabbed an iron steak knife from the tavern bar and buried it in an approaching soldier's neck, right above the armor. He pulled the sword from the dying man's scabbard, and sliced across the face of a second attacker, cleaving his steel helmet in two.

The room froze in utter shock. Captain Alexius hurled a curse and drew his ornate sword, screaming at his men to kill the bastard.

Most held back, but a couple men advanced, eager to replace the recently dishonored legate. One carried a spiked mace, and the other a steel sword. Ordo knew the men; he fought with them in Morrowind against Bandits and Marauders. He went for the stronger of the two first, the Nord with the spiked Mace. The first of Ordo's blows were blocked, but the third slashed deep at the Nord's Pelvis, and the Fourth was a clean drive into the man's shoulder and out his spine. The Nord shuddered, sputtered out blood and fell dead to the floor. In a single motion, Ordo turned to the Imperial swordsman and drove clean through his leather breastplate and into his heart.

There was only one way out of the inn, and Captain Alexius and his remaining squadron stood in the way. As the rest of the men charged at him, Ordo threw the bar lantern into the wall, where it burst with flames and set the tavern on fire.

Wheeling forward, Ordo knocked a burly Breton to his feet and took the arm of a Bosmer clean off. However, he knew there were far too many to fight, and in the chaos he overturned a large table, using it as a plow to break through his enemies.

The soldiers scattered like sheep in the billowing smoke, with Captain Alexius crying out madly and the town's bell sounding.

"_You're a dead man, Ordo!"_ Alexius cried. _"A dead man, you bastard!"_

Plummeting through a glass window, Ordo landed hard on the street and felt glass cut deep into the muscle of his left arm. He was still very drunk, though more alert and clear-headed. He searched frantically for an escape, reeling to the stables and swatting a stable boy aside. He took a black charger, Alexius's steed, from the stalls and whirled around with his sword still in-hand.

At the same moment, Alexius emerged from the blazing tavern and cried out in malice.

"_Kill him!"_ Alexius screamed, pointing to Ordo with his sword. Ordo wanted to charge right at the noble bastard and cleave him in half, but he heard arrows thud into the stall behind him and realized that the town guards had joined in the attack. He struck hard on the horse and lurched forward, making for the footbridge out of the town. When he was nearly across, an arrow struck deep into the neck of the horse, and another landed squarely in Ordo's thigh. He shouted in agony as the horse doubled over, off the bridge and into the rapids below.

Just before he hit the water, Ordo freed his feet from the stirrups and pushed himself from the horse with all his might. He lost his sword, and slammed his face on a rock as he plummeted into the icy water. The arrow in his leg caught on a boulder as he was swept downstream, turned him around, and then broke inside his leg. The pain was worse than Ordo had ever felt. On he tumbled, unable to grab ahold of anything and reeling in anguish. He swallowed large amounts of water in his effort to gasp for breath. He felt himself fall off an effacement, and then another.

Although his vision darkened, he knew that the falls were approaching, and with every ounce of his energy lurched for a rock, clawing on it's slimy bastion and barely pulling himself out of the current. The rapids were roarous, drowning out anything else he might hear. He moaned in pain, crawling from rock to rock until he collapsed, drenched, on a bank. The arrow was still in his leg, but it had pulled nearly perpendicular to its original entrance and had torn the muscle and tissue to shreds. Brick-red blood pooled in the wound, and more flowed from his face and arm.

_Fire._ He needed fire. He was drenched, it was late at night, and he had nothing on his person whatsoever. He struggled with his rags, pulling them off and tossing them aside.


	2. Chapter 2: Stones and Hard Bread

For a long time, nothing but darkness surrounded Gaius Ordo. Sweet, serene darkness, melding through distant sensations but never bringing any to consciousness. Hours, days, years; it was impossible to say. Walls of warm mist brushed against his face, and he felt pulled in two directions at once.

Then, the pain returned.

It rose up like the swell of a winter maelstrom, rolling over his body in a treacherous ambush. He gasped, groaned in horror, and at once incredibly bright light surrounded him. He went into a terrible spasm of coughs, resonating deep in his chest. He was freezing cold, but unbearably hot. His head pounded, as if it was trying to escape his skull. He couldn't think. He couldn't move. He was at the mercy of the horrible reeling within his body.

He heard vague laughter, and the thick dialect of Nords. Bloody bastard Nords. Nords, like the boy Rorik, who Ordo killed at the tavern.

_The tavern._ Events began to creep out of the fog amidst his terrible suffering, and he began to piece together falling off of the bridge and being swept downstream.

"Will he live?" a burly voice asked. It reminded Ordo of the sergeants who had made him into a soldier, many years ago. It was a cold and uncaring voice; quite astute, with the air of a seasoned veteran.

"No." A second voice answered. It had the lofty vowels of an Altmer. Ordo wanted to cut that sneering voice out of the Altmer's throat, but he was racked by uncontrollable shivering.

"Too much water in the lungs," the Altmer continued. Ordo tried to squint and make out the men standing over him, but he was too weak. He began coughing again.

The seasoned soldier grunted ironically. "Better kill him sooner than later."

Ordo didn't understand. These men were not Legionnaires. He couldn't make out the accents, but he knew they were not Imperial. Straining to open his eyes again, he caught a host of blue cloaks before him, behind the Altmer.

Stormcloaks.

Ordo was captured by Stormcloaks.

"A pity," the Altmer continued drearily. "The leg was starting to heal quite nicely. And what a chore, hauling this massive body to the graveyard."

"We don't bury trespassers." The veteran answered coldly. "We feed them to the wolves."

"Well, the Jarl will decide that, won't he?" The Altmer answered with a sardonic flavor, chuckling to himself and returning various instruments to his satchel. "It isn't every afternoon that you catch a lion on the riverbank."

"Shut up, you snake." The soldier replied. The Altmer obeyed, and Ordo heard the scraping of feet as men left the room. The soldier remained, and Ordo felt a cold hand press down upon his throat.

"_Do you know me, Lion?"_ The soldier whispered bitterly. Ordo couldn't reply. He wanted to reach up and tear the Nord's throat apart, but he had no strength in him. He only coughed and sputtered. He could feel rotten breath over his face. "Jarl be _damned,_" the soldier continued maliciously. His spittle fell over Ordo's eyes_. "I will have my vengeance." _

The soldier released Ordo, whose head rang against the straw and stone beneath him. He turned and left the prison cell, turning the heavy lock and ascending the staircase. Ordo was left to the silence, save for water dripping somewhere and the sound of a torch burning against a wall. He curled in as tight as he could, moaning bitterly and coughing once more. Once again, he fell into darkness.

"_Wake up, you big bastard!"_

Ordo heard a stone ricochet off the iron bars of his cell. He opened his eyes and looked around, seeing no one outside his cell. He had seen a guard come and slide an old piece of bread through the grate, but not before he made an elaborate show of pissing all over it, and asking if lions preferred a bit of exotic flavoring with their scraps.

Ordo devoured it all the same, and then threw it up into the latrine bucket. He cautiously removed the bits of bread from the vomit, eating a little piece every hour or so, so he could stomach the food. He was starving, and ravaged with thirst. He had fallen into delirious dreams, and when he heard the whispering he thought it was more hallucinations.

He saw another rock bounce off the opposing wall, and come ringing through the grates and into his own cell.

"_Wake up!"_ The voice repeated. It sounded like a Nord.

Ordo groaned, sliding himself against the wall.

"That's it." The voice said. "Hurry, take this." Ordo saw an entire loaf of bread bounce off the wall and land at the base of his cell. He eyed it suspiciously, watching the door, and then crawled over and began cramming it into his mouth. He didn't care if he could stomach it. He couldn't see whoever had tossed it, but he assumed it was another prisoner in a perpendicular cell out of sight.

"There isn't much time," the man continued. "The guards aren't supposed to leave the room, but once a night this young fool sneaks off to some lass's hut for an hour or so, while the other guards are asleep."

Ordo finished the loaf and licked his fingers clean, sucking the dirt and bile up with the crumbs.

"We're going to die soon, Lion." The Nord said plainly. "You particularly. They may even sell you back to the Empire. Everyone knows about Riverwood."

Riverwood. Ordo spat on the ground, and rage filled his heart. He wanted to kill Quintus Alexius with every fiber of his being.

"Listen carefully, Lion." The man continued. "You are in Falkreath. The Jarl returns from his hunt in three weeks. No one here will decide our fate in his absence. So, we have three weeks to escape."

'We?" Ordo asked weakly, his chest heaving.

"Aye, _we." _ The man answered. "I need you to get me out of this cell, and _you_ need _me_ to get me out of this prison."

Ordo tried to laugh, but all he could do was grunt. "Too many guards." He replied, leaning back against the wall. "Too many."

"You don't understand," the mysterious voice went on. "I swear to Talos, if you can open my cell, I can kill all of the guards, and anyone else in our way."

"No man can fight that many guards." Ordo answered weakly, tired of this man's foolishness. He was going to die, either in this rotten cell or at the end of a rope.

"Aye, no _man_ can." answered the voice.

Ordo didn't answer.

"Uldrik will kill you first," the voice went on. "The Captain of the Guards. You killed his daughter Avela in the north. The Gods have delivered you to him."

"I piss on the Gods." Ordo answered angrily. There wasn't a village in Skyrim that didn't have an empty chair due to Gaius Ordo's sword.

"Do as you like," the man answered. "but Uldrik Storm-Haven won't wait for the idiot Jarl to return to kill you, and he won't let you die of fever. He's going to make it look like an accident."

Ordo shook his head.

'Do you understand what I'm saying, you big oaf?" The voice continued harshly. "He will come _into your cell_ to kill you, when no one else is here. You must be prepared."

"Why should I believe you?" Ordo asked.

"What choice do you have?" The man answered. He paused for a moment. "My name is Sinding. Sinding Grey-Morning.."

"You are a fool, Sinding Grey-Morning." Ordo answered. "A dead fool, like me."

"Someday," Sinding replied, "but not yet."

Ordo sighed, clutching his chest in pain.

"You have a great advantage over our captors." Sinding said hurriedly. "They think you too weak to fight."

"I _am_ too weak to fight." Ordo answered. It exhaustive to even speak.

"Today, yes." Sinding said. "Keep eating the food I give you. You only need to overpower old Uldrik. Leave the rest of them to me."

"You're a madman," Ordo said bitterly. "Even if we crawl out of this place, I'll die within the month."

"I know a man who can heal you," Sinding replied desperately. "A Bosmer who lives alone in the forest. An alchemist from Valenwood. Get me out of this damned cage, and I will tell take you to him myself."

"I'll eat your food, madman." Ordo said dismissively. "But it's hopeless."

"Good." Sinding said, satisfied. "Save your strength, Lion. The Gods may have a plan for you yet."

So each night, after the young guard slipped away up the stairs, Ordo ate his extra ration of bread, and waited.


	3. Chapter 3: Shadows Revealed

**THREE: SHADOWS REVEALED**

When Gaius Ordo slept, he saw a great white mare with a star beaming out of its chest. Night after night, the image returned. As Ordo grew stronger, the image burned brighter in his head.

He would rise before dawn, and if the guard was slumped over, asleep in the chair, he would begin his exercises. He would do the same when the young guard left to have his mistress.

The first morning, he could barely push himself off the ground once. However, by the end of the first week, he was managing twenty repetitions before collapsing in pain and exhaustion. His limbs felt stronger, but he was still wracked by fits of coughing, fever, and cold sweats. His chest and back ached miserably, and the pain in his leg returned with a vengeance. It hadn't festered, but the damage was extensive and he found it nearly impossible to walk without a severe limp. His pulse was easily quickened, and breathing often became labored and intensive.

Uldric hadn't returned. When the young guard would slip away, Ordo would open his eyes, move quietly to the corner of his cell, and speak to Sinding in hushed tones.

"Do you think you can kill him?" Sinding asked one night, terse with anxiety.

"I've killed bigger Nords," Ordo answered. Though truthfully, he doubted it. How could you kill a fully armed man with only your hands? "I suppose it's our luck that I cut down that lass of his, no?"

Sinding was silent for a while.

"Avela Storm-Haven was a fine woman," he replied solemnly. "A fine soldier, like her parents. She was the best of the city guards before the war."

"Not fine enough." Ordo answered with a wry chuckle. He had no recollection of the girl. In battle, the enemy was generally indiscriminate. He remembered some fighting near Solitude, but in all likelihood he slayed a score of Stormcloaks in that particular battle. He didn't remember one face among them.

"Uldric forbade her from joining the rebellion," Sinding continued, "but she had too much of her mother in her. She was a beautiful woman from Rorikstad. Died in the Great War. Died in Uldric's arms outside the Imperial City."

"Bloody bad luck," Ordo replied. In Morrowind, he knew some old veterans who fought in the Great War. They always spoke superstitiously about the Battle of the Red Ring. Tales from the bloodbath were what convinced Ordo to join the Legion.

"The girl's buried here, you know." Sinding went on. "Next to her mother."

"Why should I give a skeever's piss where they buried the girl?" He growled irritably. Sinding didn't answer. Ordo glowered into the darkness and went back to his exercises, muffing his coughs as he pushed up and down against the stone.

Rain came to Falkreath, washing the village in billowing sheets. The water pooled into the cell from the ceiling, and Ordo greedily lapped it up with the ferocity of a wild dog.

"It will be tonight." Sinding announced, when the guard left and the rain had calmed. A great clap of thunder rattled the rafters of the prison and illuminated the room with a brief electric glow.

"How can you be sure?" Ordo asked skeptically. The rain brought a ferociously wet cold with it, and he used his thin mat as a pathetic blanket.

"The thunder will muffle your cries." Sinding replied. "If he's going to come for you, it will be tonight."

So Ordo waited.

The white mare, glowering with yellow moons for her eyes, gazed thoughtfully at Gaius Ordo, shaking her beautiful white mane and beckoning him to follow. He wanted to; but felt pulled in the opposite direction. He heard a lock turn, and the mare was gone.

He opened his eyes.

Ordo didn't dare move. He faced the wall, shivering, listening carefully as the iron door to his cell moaned open. Slow, deliberate footsteps inched their way toward him. Thunder continued to rumble menacingly from above, and more salvos of white lighting sprang up through the cold air. Another step closer.

Ordo was terrified that he would be stabbed or bludgeoned before he could turn. He feigned a feverish moan, and turned over to face the cell door. Through his narrowly opened eyes, he saw the shadowed silhouette of a man stooped before him, a dagger in his hand. It was Uldric Storm-Haven.

The old Nord bent down, and Ordo could feel the soldier's anxious breath on his face. _Not yet._

_"Wake up, Lion."_ Uldric hissed, shaking Ordo. _"I want you to watch me kill you, boy."_

Ordo opened his eyes. Rudrik was robed in a brown riding cloak. It was the first time Ordo had seen the man clearly. He was old, hard, and lean, with plenty of scars and a crown of silver hair. His eyes were blue, full of wrath and vindication, and he wore the Stormcloak seal on his tunic. He grabbed Ordo by his scalp and brought the razor-sharp dagger to his throat.

_"May Oblivion swallow you," _Uldric whispered vengefully.

_"You first."_

With all of his strength, Ordo heaved his hidden rock into Uldric Storm-Haven's face. It was a mighty blow, and he felt the old man's skull crack as he spun and turned the dagger around. Lighting struck as Ordo plunged the blade a dozen times into the old veteran's unarmored chest. Warm blood splashed against the cell wall and drenched his face He could taste the man's hot blood in his mouth.

When it was done, Ordo went into a fit of violent coughs, feeling the exhaustion hit him. The dagger rattled on against stone. Uldric's body twitched as the arterial gushes of bright blood subsided.

"Lion!" Sinding whispered. "Quickly, Lion! They key!"

Ordo rose, fatigued and drenched in sweat. He found a ring of keys in the dead commander's pockets, picking the dagger up again and taking the cloak. For the first time, the thought that he could leave Sinding in his cell occurred to him. He could likely make a break for the door without being stopped, if he was quick enough.

"You won't make it, Lion." Sinding said slowly, as if he was reading the Imperial's mind. "This is Skyrim. The only way out of the prison is through the barracks."

Hesitantly, Ordo turned and made his way to the cell. When he turned the corner, he saw that the cell was fashioned quite differently than the others. It was reinforced with heavy steel bars, and led down to a pool of shallow water. There, at the entrance, was a skeleton of a man with blonde hair and sallow brown eyes.

"I haven't eaten in two weeks," Sinding said sardonically. "What were you expecting?"

"_You_ are going to get us through a barracks full of city guards?" Ordo asked with disgusted disbelief. He was tricked by a boyish Nord. This man couldn't fight his way through a corn field.

"I always held the intelligence of Imperial kind in such high regard," Sinding answered with a crooked smile. 'Why do you think they keep me here, Lion? Petty thievery? Necromancy? Why would a Nord be locked away like this, instead of hanged or beheaded?"

"I don't have time for your blasted Nord riddles." Ordo answered.

"No man can get through those guards," Sinding repeated solemnly. "Open the gate, Lion. And for the love of Talos, get behind me."

Ordo hesitated suspiciously. He felt feint, and knew the young guard wouldn't be gone much longer. _Oh, to Oblivion with it all._

Ordo found the proper key, turned the heavy iron catch, and watched the steel bars recede from the cell. Sinding walked forward, his flesh half-rotten from spending so long in water. Ordo noticed a shining black ring on the Nord's finger, which the man caressed absently. He gave Ordo a reassuring nod.

"I wasn't completely honest with you, Lion." Sinding said, his voice suddenly quite darker. "I cannot take you to the alchemist."

"I knew it," Ordo spat maliciously, pulling his dagger forward. He was going to cut the silver tongue from this treacherous little Nord's mouth. "There isn't any bloody Bosmer healer, is there?"

Sinding smiled again. "There is, Lion. On my life, I sweat it. But I cannot take you to him."

"Why not?" Ordo asked. Lightning flashed again, and he looked nervously to the stairwell door.

"You will see." Sinding answered. "Take the old miller's road north, until you reach the great lake. Follow the shore westward, then double back south through the deer path up the cliffs. Repeat it to me, Lion."

"Miller's road north, west along the shore, south up the cliffs." Ordo answered, confused and suspicious of Sinding's behavior.

"You _must_ go this way." Sinding said. He pulled a leather band out from around his neck, with a small vial tied to the base. He handed it to Ordo. "Give this to the Bosmer. For the Gods' sake, don't drink it. He will understand."

Eyeing Sinding, Ordo took put the vial around his neck. He looked back across the room. "What will you use as a weapon?"

With a final smile, Sinding put a hand on Ordo's shoulder and walked past him.

"Uldric Storm-Haven was a good Nord." Sinding said respectfully, looking to the mutilated man's corpse. The dead man's eyes were wide open with grievous terror. "The Gods must not be done with you."

"What are you?' Ordo asked the man, utterly confused. Sinding looked back at him with sad, empty eyes.

"A good man, Gaius Ordo. A good man. I pray that you remember that."

That was the first time Sinding said his real name.

"Now get behind me."

Ordo obeyed, his dagger at the ready. He prepared himself for the rush through the barracks.

Then, Sinding did something very peculiar.

He dropped to his knees and began to moan, still touching his black ring. He lurched, and his voice became even darker. Ordo took a step back in shock, and the fragile form of Sinding twisted grotesquely, as dark black fur ripped through his flesh and his eyes split into terrible yellow orbs. His clothes shred to ribbons upon the stone.

_No man could defeat so many guards. _

The beast that was once Sinding Grey-Morning threw back its terrible head and howled, so loudly and viciously that every creature within miles stirred with wakening fear. He heard voices call from outside.

The beast barreled straight through the prison's reinforced oak door, shattering it to splinters.

With one more breath, Gaius Ordo limped forward.


	4. Chapter 4: Into the Night

Gerbald Snow-Sword silently crept into the Falkreath barracks, lifting the heavy oak door up to prevent the hinges from squealing. _Cursed, ancient thing._ Everything about this wretched village was old and decrepit.

At first, Gerbald was hesitant to leave his midnight post to meet Ysora. But the beautiful widow had a pleasing look to her, and Gerbald was bored. It wasn't a very serious post, anyway. That monster was barred in with steel rods, and the only other prisoner was some dying Imperial who just groaned and coughed through the night.  
A year ago, Gerbald wouldn't dream of leaving his post for a moment. The Old Man was sharp as a tack back then, before his daughter died fighting in the rebellion. Since then, Uldric Storm-Haven was gone fighting with the Stormcloaks for weeks at a time; and when he was in the village he was distracted and reclusive. A few of the younger guards wagered that the only reason he kept his commission as the Captain of the Guard was that the young Jarl was too afraid to fire him.

So, Gerbald began to slip away for his watch, ensuring the others were asleep before slinking through the shadows to the Breton's shack. She was a decent lover, but Gerbald resolved to find a younger girl when he joined the Stormcloaks. He had put off joining for years now, while most men his age were either dead or off fighting the Empire. That business procured plenty of widows, and Ysora hadn't wept long before she brought Gerbald into her bed. If anyone discovered their arrangement, Gerbald would be beaten from Falkreath. Ysora's late husband was a strong and respected man; a close friend of the late Jarl.

So they met while the village slept, tangled in cold, dispassionate love. He never said a word afterward, and most nights she would weep silently to herself as he tied his breeches together and left without a word. She was a stupid, petulant woman, and although Gerbald resented her whimpering he always left a septim on her old wooden dresser before slipping back into the night.

He returned to the barracks as he did nearly every night, his ringmail thrown back over his tunic and his helmet donned. His axe was dull, and beginning to rust. There was a time where Uldric would've beat a guard senseless for such a crass violation of duty, but these days the Falkreath guards did as they pleased.

Sighing, Gerbald opened a bottle of mead from the shelf and removed his helmet, downing nearly the entire bottle and smacking his lips. He loathed passing the night away at that wretched, rotten desk in the city's dungeon, but he knew he had to return downstairs before the next sentry relieved him. Daydreaming of the pretty girls of cities like Windhelm and Whiterun, Gerbald cursed the backwater swamp of Falkreath, downed the rest of the bottle, and wiped his face. When he was a Stormcloak, he'd drink proper mead. None of this watered-down Kajhit piss.

That was the exact moment when the werewolf burst through the heavy door.

Petrified, Gerbald instinctively moved for his axe; but the ferocious beast had leapt upon him and ripped out his windpipe before the boy could lift a hand. The beast spat the fleshy rag of Gerbald's bloody flesh against the wall, knocking a shelf to the ground. Yells rang out from the berthings above and adjoined to the hall.

Ordo followed at some distance, crouched low, squinting from the brightness of a well-lit room. He was quite exhausted from killing Uldric Storm-Haven, and he suspected he had broken a finger or two smashing the old man's brains in.

A disoriented Nord burst into the room, wearing only his breeches and brandishing a steel sword. The half-naked guard gave an angry cry and leapt at the beast, but he was sent hurling back against the wall, his face shredded to ribbons. The werewolf took off into the adjoining corridor, where Ordo could hear the clammer of steel and the screams of dying Nords. He wasted no time, trading his dagger for the dead man's sword and entering the corridor.

He could tell immediately that this was the sleeping quarters of the junior guards. It was poorly lit, but Ordo had seen similar rooms during his time in the Legion. The beast was literally tearing the ambushed Nords to pieces, growling and snarling in a blur of fangs and claws. One of the guards escaped the beast's eye, and made for Ordo with his axe above his head. Ordo ducked, bracing himself against the guard's body and plummeting his sword into the man's abdomen. The unfortunate guard gave a shriek of terror, and Ordo felt him go limp on his blade.

_"Werewolf! The Werewolf is loose!"_

Cries rang out from outside. Ordo knew he had to put distance between himself and the village, and quickly. The old wound from his leg had torn open, and he could only limp toward the door over the carpet of dead Nords. He slipped on their blood, reeling forward into a bed and clambering over it. Luckily, all attention seemed to be on the beast outside.

Ordo was tempted to don one of the many sets of chainmail lying at the feet of the beds, but he checked himself. He couldn't run ten feet with armor on in his condition. Besides, he doubted any of it would fit properly. Instead, he rifled through the chests, keeping two apples and a water bladder. The whole town was awake now, and he could hear the temple bell ringing. He was running out of time.

Cursing the Divine for his useless leg, he tore fabric from a sheet and tied it tightly near his groin to slow the blood oozing down his leg. He estimated a good five minutes before his leg went completely limp and he would be unable to run.

Bolting outside, Ordo made for the shadows. Women and children were screaming, and he heard the terrible snarls of the beast tearing through the village. He didn't look back.

As he turned around a blacksmith, Ordo leaned out and saw the village wall. He was only a short distance away now. He heard footsteps, and dove to the ground as a man with an axe ran past, rushing to answer the temple bells' call to arms.

He inched his way out again, and had taken a few paces before he heard a gruff voice call out behind him.

"_Where in Oblivion are you going?"_

Ordo spun around. The burly, red-haired man with the axe had doubled back and stood before him menacingly, his knuckles tight against his weapon.

He looked the soldier type. He had a barrel chest, with massive biceps and warpaint etched above his eyes. He wore no armor, but Ordo knew that meant his blows would only be faster. And Ordo was practically a cripple, with one of his legs going ever-more limp.

"See for yourself," Ordo answered the man, lunging forward with his sword.

The red-maned man parried the blow with surprising dexterity, spinning on his left foot and bringing the axe around with a full swing. Abandoning any hope of deflecting such a mighty blow, Ordo leapt backward, tripping on a rock and tumbling over. The man, off-balance from the swing, pitched forward with the momentum of his axe. Ordo kicked him square in the crotch, and squared himself on one knee, jumping forward to stab the man in the heart.

However, the big bastard surprised Ordo again, growling madly and thrusting his axe forward horizontally, deflecting the sword and head-butting Ordo in the face, sending him sprawling.

Ordo groaned, white lights exploding in his head. He scrambled for his sword, grabbing the hilt and spinning away just as the man heaved his axe toward Ordo's face.

Fragments of rock exploded into Ordo's eyes. He rose, blood streaming from his forehead. At his best, he would have made meat of this big Nord bastard ages ago. But in his current state, it was all he could do not to be decapitated. He wasn't used to being outmatched.

"Come on, then!" The Nord taunted, shaking his giant axe. Ordo obliged, advancing with his sword high, but at the last moment ducking down and striking at the man's calf. As expected, the man was taken by surprise, and Ordo felt his sword rip through his opponent's leg. He felt the familiar ring in his hilt of steel sliding through bone.

The massive Nord howled with malice, collapsing like a sack of bricks. Ordo wasted no time, spinning to gain momentum with a frenzied howl and driving the sword straight through the Nord's heart.

The massive man looked for a moment like he might pull the sword from his own chest, but faltered suddenly, sputtering up blood as his eyes rolled back into his head.

The entire fight took less than a minute, but to Ordo it seemed like days. His leg was throbbing, and enough blood was falling from his head to smear hot blood across his dirty, sickly face. Spitting on the rocks, he took off at full sprint for the walls. He left the sword buried in the dead Nord's chest.

No one stopped him again. He left the village of Falkreath through the main gate, crawling up an embankment and vanishing into the forest mist.

When he could no longer hear the cries of terror from Falkreath, Ordo sunk into the roots of an ancient willow tree at the base of a craggy granite outcropping. He ripped the makeshift tourniquet from his leg, cramming a leaf into his mouth and chewing it frantically between his teeth. He spat the wet bundle into his hand, cramming it into his re-opened wound and wrapping the fabric securely about his leg. The pain was tolerable; the true urgency was getting out of the cold. Feverish, and drenched with sweat, Ordo tried to remember the instructions Sinding gave him. He hadn't considered orienting himself at all before he bolted out of Falkreath. It had all been purely instinctual.

The little nest below the exposed willow roots was well-protected from the wind and quite hidden from view. Ordo could see dawn breaking in the distance, and slid himself deeper into the shelter. He had no weapon, but there was plenty of water and he greedily devoured two of apples before passing out senselessly upon the cool earth.


	5. Chapter 5: The Breton's Son

**FIVE: THE BRETON'S SON**

Ordo hadn't slept long when the sun crept above the snowy peaks, bathing the grotto with golden beams and dissipating the night's heavy mist. He stirred from the light of bright reflections upon his face, and he realized he was near the shore of a body of water. A hawk cried in the distance, and he heard a morning breeze sailing across the water. He remembered this lake from his patrols; it wasn't far from Riverwood. He was freezing cold, shivering uncontrollably.

Groaning, he crammed the stolen bladder to his lips and lapped up a night's worth of stale water. Sputtering, he ate another apple whole, pushing up and trying to orient himself against the rising of the sun.

It was then that he heard two voices close by.

One was singing and old foreign tune; one Ordo heard in the Cyrodil taverns every now and then. He sounded like an old man. A second voice called out, much younger and higher-pitched.

"Oh, enough of your blasted singing," the younger voice grumbled. "Do you want the Jarl's men to catch us, you big oaf?"

The old man kept humming to himself.

"It's hard enough trapping fur these days, with the damned war laying waste to the countryside," the younger continued angrily. "Why don't you just light a bonfire and beacon every bandit this side of Tamriel to the lakeshore? You giant oaf."

Ordo thought quickly to himself. If they were headed his way, they would surely see him, crammed pathetically into the hillside dugout. He cursed his luck, and then scrambled out of the hole. He stopped both the old man's humming and the young man's admonishing at once.

They were small; possibly Bretons. Certainly not Nords. They wore fur coverings, each with a bow and quiver strapped over their backs. The old man was well past his prime, with watery brown eyes and a pointy, knobbed jaw. The young man had the same eyes as the elder, with a mat of greasy brown hair and equally brown eyes. He put a hand on the dagger looped onto his leather belt.

"Easy, there." Ordo said cautiously. "No harm meant, friends." He lifted his palms to show that he was unarmed.

"Stay back!" The younger Breton warned, his voice cracking loudly. He brandished the blade menacingly. The old man studied Ordo with a quizzical grin.

"Put the steel away, boy." Ordo answered, advancing toward the two. "If I wanted you dead, I'd of caved your little skull in with a rock ages ago."

The young man lifted the dagger, backing away from Ordo.

"Regvild, you look like an idiot." The old man spoke at last, smacking his lips and reaching for a sack of wine that hung at his belt. He took a healthy swig, and then offered it to Ordo with a smile. Ordo took the sack with a nod, squeezing a healthy portion into his mouth and feeling the strange concoction warm his mouth and belly. The old man stroked his whiskers, looking Ordo over.

"Who are you?" Regvild asked frantically, shocked by his father's hospitality. "Who do you serve?"

"I don't serve anyone, boy." Ordo replied, reaching out and simply taking the dagger from Regvild's shaking hand. He threw it into the water. "And I need to find the Miller's road from here."

Terrified, Regvild recoiled. "Run, father!" He cried to the old man, who rolled his eyes and pointed a thumb back at his son with a sarcastic grunt.

"Fallen out of favor with old Titus Medes, have we?" The old man asked Ordo, motioning to the legionary tattoo on the Imperial's arm.

"You have no idea." Ordo replied. He then felt faint, stepping backwards a bit and falling into a fit of violent coughs. His lungs felt racked, and spittle fell from his mouth to the dirt in long, bloody streams.

"None of my business," the old fellow replied with a shrug, helping Ordo to his feet.

"I must reach the Miller's road," Ordo repeated. Whether the two Bretons knew it or not, he was too weak to fight both of them. A proper soldier would have no trouble mincing him in a matter of seconds in his condition.

"Well, Imperial, you are in luck." The old man replied happily. "My question for you, is how much is the Miller's Road worth to you?"

"How about your scalp, old man?" Ordo asked, stepping forward. The Breton chuckled amicably.

"Not much value, there. Rather depreciated, at this point. And anyway, I don't think you could lift a rock in your condition, lad. Let alone accurately hurl one."

"I don't have anything," Ordo said desperately. His ploy had failed.

"Not yet," The Breton answered. He looked back to his whimpering son, who was overcome with fear. He sighed deeply and turned back to Ordo.

"We're not from here, you know." The old man went on. "High Rock's where I brought that sniveling lackwit into this world. A decent and respectable community. When she was pregnant with the pup, we were certain he would be a great wizard."

Ordo assumed "she" was the old man's late wife.

"Funny how things turn out, isn't it, friend? We, a respectable Breton family, scrounging furs in a foreign land; and you, a mighty soldier, invalid unable to lift a single stone. I'll be damned if the Gods don't have a sense of humor."

"I don't have anything," Ordo repeated wearily. The old man studied Ordo and looked back to his son. He sighed, and dug a necklace out from under his fur robes. It was strikingly foreign, made of gold with a green gem fastened to the center in the shape of a star.

"I want you to swear on this stone," the Breton said at last, gently stroking the green gem. "Swear on the stone that when the time comes, you will come to my idiot son's aid."

Furrowing his brow, Ordo looked the necklace over. What sort of trickery was this?

"If this is a game, old man, I—"

"It most certainly is not." The man answered solemnly. "I am Jaeron, servant of Akatosh and descendant of Galen. Do you, Imperial, vow upon your life to come to my son at his time of need?"

Incredulous, Ordo looked the boy over. That flea-ridden little mongrel would be dead before his twentieth year. Ordo knew a coward when he saw one, and Regvild, son of Jaeron, was a coward.

"Alright, old man." Ordo replied dismissively. "I'll swear on your old rock." What difference did it make? He needed to find the Miller's Road. He'd swear to wear a dress and jump off the highest tower in Solitude, if it meant he could leave the strange man and his mongrel son.

"Then with the blessing of Akatosh, it is so." The Breton answered. Satisfied, he nodded and placed the necklace back inside his furs.

"A queer vocation for a Breton Priest," Ordo commented suspiciously, "trapping fur along a lake in Skyrim."

Jaeron smiled sadly.

"This is Skyrim, stranger. It is a land tragically suited for renegades."

"Just tell him," Regvild said at last, embarrassed and frightened. "Just tell him so he'll go."

Nodding, Jaeron pointed to a granite peak across the water. "Make for the pass there. But before you reach it, follow the brook upstream until it arcs eastward. That is the entrance to the Miller's road, stranger."

Ordo nodded, and turned to depart.

"I don't know your name, soldier." Jaeron said curiously. Ordo stopped, and turned his head across his shoulder.

"Renegade," Ordo answered darkly, and continued on his way.

He never saw Jaeron of High Rock again.


End file.
